Small Comforts
by Midorima Kazunari
Summary: After the betrayal of HYDRA and turnover of power inside S.H.I.E.L.D., Coulson's best agent returns to watch his back. The new team struggles to adjust to the changes within themselves, as well as rebuilding of S.H.I.E.L.D. *Warning contains Spoilers for the end AOS season 1 and the Avengers*
1. Chapter 1

"Phil, could you please explain to me why I had to put an arrow through my handler's eye?" The voice was one Coulson hadn't heard in months, but the very sarcastic and dry tone immediately made him smile.

"How did you – "

"Know you weren't dead? Duplicity is Fury's game, his modus operandi. Come on Phil, I'm not an Avenger because of my rugged good looks," he said. Coulson pictured the man on the other end of the connection, imagining the smirk that would accompany the words.

Coulson allowed the first rusty attempt at a chuckle to escape his lips since Fury had passed the burden of authority to him.

"Bet that's the best laugh you've had in a long while," Barton sassed.

"How did you – "

"Get this phone number? Phil, don't make me sound like a broken record. Just tell me why my handler tried to kill me and what I can do to make sure there is no repeat attempt."

Coulson slumped back into the chair, fingering the limited edition Hawkeye pen that sat in his Captain American pencil cup. The pen was worth a mint, having been made in such a small quantity and for such a short time that it was almost a one-off.

"HYDRA," Coulson finally said. "They infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and tore it apart from the inside."

"So, it's true then." In the background, Coulson could hear traffic noises and a whistle of wind. "I heard on the news that we were a terrorist organization now, but I'd thought that was some sort of ploy on Fury's part."

"No," Coulson said and rubbed his forehead. "I wish it had been. Fury…"

"Don't feed me a bullshit line about him being dead, Phil. I know that's a lie. Tasha was with Steve when that whole Winter Solider thing went down."

"Have you heard from Tasha?"

"You doubt her ability to survive?"

"Never," Phil defended, "but even the best of agents can be hurt."

"What about Fury?" Barton asked. The reticence in Barton's voice was so thick, Coulson felt surrounded in the feelings of betrayal. Barton had been hurt badly, along with Coulson, and the entirety of the Avengers. The fact that he'd initiated the contact, however, gave Coulson a glimmer of hope.

"Fury left the restructuring of S.H.I.E.L.D. to me, so it's Director Phil now. Will you come in? Where are you?" he said, sitting forward.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Coulson waited, knowing that trust didn't come easy to his finest agent.

"The Crimea," Barton answered. "I finished up a job in the Crimea. What's your play, Phil?" Barton's question held heavy implications and a wrong answer would end the conversation forever.

"Will you come in if I ask? I'm going to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D."

"So, I'm a free agent now?" Barton asked, evading the question for a second time.

"Yes, retroactively, I regret to inform you that your employment as an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. has been terminated. Your IRA and retirement has been seized by the United States Government."

"Men like me don't live until retirement age, Phil," Barton chuckled, a dry and unused sound. In those many months since the invasion of New York, Coulson had followed Barton and Romanoff's assignments, seeing the trials S.H.I.E.L.D. had put them through. He didn't doubt that every tired syllable had been earned with hard work and suffering. "Besides, S.H.I.E.L.D. demoted me three security clearances levels after I was compromised. They lost their trust in me; I lost mine in them."

Coulson closed his eyes and wondered if there was anything he could say to sway Barton.

"I…"

"Don't, Phil. Begging is undignified. I won't come in and help you rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D., but if you want me, I'll return and guard your back. That's the best I can do."

Coulson's laughter shook his whole body and Barton allowed him the full thirty seconds he needed to exorcise those particular feelings.

"And Tasha?"

"I'll talk to her," he said, promising nothing for the woman.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to MissScorp, nightgigjo, and bkwrmnlvnit for beta reading this new adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

Barton hadn't been lying when he said he'd just finished up a job in the Crimea, nor that he was in motion. He dropped the receiver back on the cradle, glad that some parts of the world were still so backward that pay phones were still an option. He'd ditched his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued satellite phone moments after he'd left the dead body of Agent Peterson.

He'd been stupid to let the handler get that close, to trust the man with his back, and he'd almost paid for it. He scratched at the fresh wound marks around his neck; received from the garrote of the treacherous handler.

_I earned the scar - like I've earned all my scars - for being too stupid to read the writing on the wall. _

He'd gotten spoiled with Coulson; there wasn't a better handler, or a man he trusted more, and somehow that trust had transferred itself to Peterson simply because both men wore expensive suits and boring ties.

Barton swung his pack over his shoulders and began walking toward the bus station at the edge of town. The coordinates Coulson had provided were a good two thousand miles away and he was cold and miserable. The sooner he started, the quicker the journey would be over.

* * *

Barton was relieved that Coulson was unavailable when he arrived three days later. He was dirty and tired after the fifteen mile hike from the road, and he was in such a bad mood that he feared his caustic manner would ruin the reunion he'd looked forward to since he found out that his handler – his friend – was still alive.

Melinda May took his gear, promising to stow it in a private room, while Koening gave him a battery of psychological tests. He was too exhausted to give two shits about what the man gleaned from them, so he was biting and sarcastic throughout.

He was cleared and given a lanyard, begrudgingly; Barton didn't care. Since the Battle of New York, he'd been _persona no grata _among most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. He was so used to being mistrusted that to be trusted now would throw off his entire worldview.

His room was the last one in a long hallway. There was a stairwell exit across from it, and he appreciated that May knew him – at least in reputation – well enough to know that this was the room he would have picked for himself. The air vents were too small for traditional recon, but after locking the door and wedging the standard-issue chair under the handle, he climbed onto the second bunk and unscrewed the vent cover. A thorough inspection proved that there were no surveillance devices. He swept the rest of the room before getting undressed.

_It's been…_ he thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd felt secure enough to take a shower and sleep in the same place… _too long_.

* * *

_Blue, it's always blue, but sometimes it's also green and purple, like a bruise on his soul. He moves without volition, pulls, aims, fires, but he can't see the target. Out of control and deadly, he spills blue blood, green blood, purple blood, there is no red in his vision, just… darkness._

He woke, panting into the full glare of the fluorescent light above the top bunk. He untangled his feet from the sheets and swung his legs over the side, his breath caught in his throat. Panic bubbled over as he fought to remember the dream. _If I can just catch the memory, I can let it go._ But he was unable to do more than recall the colors of his nightmares and the feelings of despair.

His S.H.I.E.L.D.-appointed counselor had a name for his disease – PTSD – and wanted him to take medications to lessen the symptoms, but they made his senses dull and slow, made his eyes droop, made his aim less than perfect. _Fuck the drugs, I'm a big boy and I can deal with this._

He pulled on the pair of least dirty jeans from the pile he'd made on the bunk below (in the shape of a sleeping body to slow down the reaction time of anyone who burst through the door) and padded barefoot into the hallway.

He followed the signs toward the cafeteria, hoping that the kitchen was open at all times of the day.

* * *

Skye sat on one of the high bar stools in the kitchen eating cookie dough straight out of the tube. In front of her was a tablet and she scrolled through her favorite forum, searching for any drop of human companionship in the wee hours of the night.

[Hello? Anyone lurking?] she wrote and hit post. She hated how weak it made her sound, but she didn't care. Ward wasn't here to look over her shoulder and accuse her of sentimentality or… he wasn't here and that's all that mattered. She'd trusted him, and he'd tried to kill her. There was nothing she could do about it, but in the middle of the night, when they'd meet in the kitchen – her to eat cookie dough and him to have one last cup of coffee before bed – they'd debrief the day and she always felt…

"Is this pity party open to anyone, or do I need an invitation?" a voice snarked from the doorway. She hadn't heard anyone approach and in the back of her mind she heard Ward's voice. _He's close enough to kill you, stupid girl._

"This isn't a pity party, Agent Barton," she tried to keep her tone a balance between strong and confident and at ease. She'd read his file, up to her clearance of course, as soon as AC had announced he was coming. He was an archer, an assassin, an Avenger, and Coulson's friend. "But, we've got plenty of cookie dough if you're interested." She offered him the spoon, but he smirked and pushed away from the door, headed toward the refrigerator.

"My apologies. In my experience, people only eat raw cookie dough when they are upset or wallowing in self-loathing. You didn't seem upset, so I assumed the other."

"That's ok. I just can't sleep."

"Tell me how this works, the supplies," he said, his head disappearing inside the fridge.

"If you don't want to share something, put your name on it, and put it on the top shelf. If you don't care, put it anywhere else."

"So this chili on the second shelf is fair game?" he asked, looking over his shoulder at her with a wicked grin.

"Yeah, but be warned, Trip made it and it's super hot. I think he uses a lot of Tabasco sauce."

"Sounds good," he took the container and popped it open, taking a deep breath. His eyes watered.

"Utensils are in that drawer," Skye pointed to the far end of the counter. He took a seat, two down from her, and inhaled the chili straight from the container without bothering to heat it.

"So, you're an Avenger, huh? You're the first one I've met." Skye tried some small talk when it was obvious he wasn't going to start the conversation. "What's that like?"

Barton exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. "What? Coulson doesn't count? He's just as much an Avenger as I am."

"AC? I thought he was just –"

"Coulson's not 'just' anything. He went up against Loki, by himself. Coulson's an Avenger, through and through. Ask any of us, we'll all tell you the same thing."

"Don't lie to her, Barton, she's earnest enough to believe you," Coulson said, from the doorway. He was dressed in sweatpants and a frayed Captain America t-shirt.

_Same old Coulson, _Barton thought.

"I ain't lying to the girl," he answered, because honestly he didn't know her name. "Ask Steve or Tony, they'll say the same thing. You are an Avenger."

"So you can't sleep either, huh?" Coulson asked, the previous conversation dropped.

"Haven't had a full eight hours since before the Battle of New York. You?"

"Same," Coulson admitted. "We all end up in the kitchen at some point during the night. I've gained ten pounds since coming here."

"We should spar next time we can't sleep."

"You'd kick my ass."

Skye watched the conversation Ping-Pong back and forth, not adding anything.

"Of course I would," Barton smirked.

"What did your psych evaluation say?" Coulson asked casually. He's seen the reports and knew the official diagnosis, but he wanted to know if Barton would admit it.

"PTSD," he said, shrugging one shoulder. He stood, and washed the container out, before putting it in the dishwasher. "You?"

The question was just as casual in a tone that said, _I'm only asking in return to be polite_. The tone didn't fool Coulson. He knew this man and could read his poker face better than anyone on earth.

"Same," Coulson answered and watched as Barton's shoulders relaxed by millimeters.

_Kindred souls_, Barton thought. He remembered then the girl sitting at the counter, watching their conversation while pretending that that tablet in front of her was the most interesting thing on earth.

"By the way," he addressed her. "Don't call me Agent. I don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. anymore. The name's Clint Barton."

She held out her hand in response, "I'm Skye."

"Nice to meet you, Skye."

"If you don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D., what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to watch that fool's back," he said, indicating Coulson with his chin.

Skye smiled at him, then looked at Coulson.

"I like him, AC, try not to make his work any harder than it needs to be, ok?"


	3. Chapter 3

For once, a mission that presented itself as a milk run actually was as easy as it looked. Coulson and Skye had gone in, leaving May with the SUV, Trip nearby for back-up, and Barton up high, watching over the entire situation.

The guy they'd identified as a potential recruit for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s R&D department had been waiting his entire life to be noticed. Handed the chance to _be something more _excited and delighted him.

He even provided a wonderful cup of coffee as they waited for the extraction team to pick him up. Coulson was feeling rather proud of himself, having navigated through his first week as the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. without losing a single agent.

"Barton, return to the SUV, we're leaving in five," May's voice came over the coms as Coulson shook Jerry Sorten's hand.

"Good luck, Jerry," Skye told him, giving him a reassuring smile. "I look forward to working with you real soon."

"Barton?" May's voice called again. "Barton, respond?"

"It could be a malfunction on the com gear, again," Skye sighed. "Ever since Fitz…"

"Should I go get him?" Trip volunteered.

"No, I'll go," Coulson said. "I could use the exercise. This job has me behind a desk far more than I'd like. You three head back to the Bus. We'll catch up in Lola."

Weapon drawn, he exited the roof with as much energy and precision as if he were going into a full out firefight. It wasn't like Barton to miss a call, he was –

Coulson lowered his weapon slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves that might spook the precariously perched archer. Gargoyle-like, back against the wall with his knees bent at an unnatural angle that kept him wedged into the tiny space, Barton was sound asleep with his chin resting on his chest. He was going to have a wicked sunburn, if the flush across his forehead was any indication.

"Barton," Coulson said, clearing his throat. He didn't dare reach out and touch the man. No, it would be foolish, and dangerous, to wake the dozing hawk. He was armed after all, the bow slung over his knees and a full quiver under one hand.

"Agent Barton, report!" He tried again, a little louder. Barton's head snapped to the left, but his eyes didn't open.

"Hawkeye?" he said, as he knelt just out of arm's reach. "Clint, come on man, you've got to wake up."

"Coulson, have you made contact with Barton? Is everything alright?" May's voice came over the coms.

"Everything's fine. As Skye suspected it was an equipment malfunction," Coulson supplied.

"Ok, just making sure, Sir."

"I'm going to stop for Chinese take-out on the way back. Have everyone text me their order," Coulson said, buying himself a little more time to extricate Barton from this situation without blowing his cover.

"Right, Sir; will do."

Coulson stared at Barton, noting the gauntness of his cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes, and his poorly shaven chin. This wasn't the man he knew before the Battle of New York; this was a wounded soldier.

Coulson stepped back away from the edge and read the text messages that came pouring in, one after another.

As the phone vibrated in his hand, he was momentarily grateful that he kept the thing on silent most days. He wasn't ready for the ball-busting teasing Barton would inevitably give him for having Captain America as his text alert. But then he stopped and considered.

Turning his phone all the way up, he went to the menu and selected the function that would allow him to test his ring tone.

"Avengers Assemble," Steve's voice rang out.

Barton shot up from his position, quicker than an arrow let loose from his bow. He swayed for a moment and then realized where he was. He didn't even have the energy to blush.

"I'm sorry, Phil –"

"Don't be sorry, Clint. Just… get some sleep, alright? You look like shit warmed over and you just missed the easiest job in the history of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Figures," Barton said, rubbing the feeling back into his legs.

"Truthfully, when was the last time you got a full night's sleep?"

"I don't remember, Phil," Barton admitted as his gaze swept over the city. There was an unnatural, unfocused look in his normally sharp eyes. "Every time I try, I see his stupid, smug face, leering at me, telling me that I'm a traitor."

"Loki," Phil said, noticing the way Barton's whole body flinched at the name. "He features prominently in my nightmares, too."

"This won't happen again. I'll…"

"You'll take a nap, after we pick up take-out and have dinner as a team," Coulson said, and Barton knew it wasn't a suggestion.


	4. Chapter 4

After dinner, Barton followed Coulson back to his office like a recalcitrant child.

"Phil, man, come on. I'm trying to follow orders."

"Even your excuses are tired, Clint."

Coulson opened a filing cabinet behind his desk and removed a stack of neatly folded clothing. He picked up the Iron Man shirt and placed it aside. He likewise put aside the Thor and Hulk shirts to choose the purple and black Hawkeye one.

"What, no Black Widow? No Cap?"

"I'm behind on my laundry," Coulson replied with a smile. He handed Barton the shirt and a matching pair of pants. Barton, unsure of Coulson's purpose, just stood there holding the laundry.

"Bathroom's through there." Coulson indicated the door behind his desk. "Change and then I'll explain how this is going to work."

"Phil. I've been subsisting on power naps. With this afternoon, I doubt I could sleep now even if I tried."

"I know that I haven't earned your trust again, but you're here and you've put yourself under my authority. Surprise me and just do what you're told once or twice."

Barton didn't answer, but he did as he was told.

* * *

Coulson hung up his jacket, put his rumpled tie into the bag for dry cleaning, and undid the top few buttons of his Oxford. He rolled up his sleeves and poured a cup of coffee from the carafe on the sideboard. He sipped it, and finding it cold, rinsed the whole pot down the small bar sink.

Barton came out of the bathroom, wearing the too short pants and the oversized t-shirt.

"Barton, reporting for bed," he quipped.

"Good. Take one of these."

Barton caught the bottle and read the label, but still didn't understand why Coulson was asking him to take a prescription drug.

"What is it?"

"Sleeping pill."

"Nope, not doing it," he insisted and tossed it back. "I'm not useful if I can't respond at a moment's notice."

"I had the same misconception. It's not like that, it is a sleep aid. I've taken one and then had to deal with an emergency."

"What about nightmares? What's the exit strategy for that?"

Coulson nodded. "That's why I brought you here. While I work on this mountain of paperwork, you'll nap on the couch. If I see that you are in distress, I'll wake you up."

* * *

Barton stretched out, his right leg bent at the knee and propped against the back of the couch and his left arm thrown over his eyes.

"It's not working, Phil," he whined.

"Three minutes, Clint, you swallowed it three minutes ago."

"Tell me a boring story, Phil, like how you started collecting Cap stuff."

"That's hardly boring. My father was a huge Captain America fan. I was very young when he died and my mother was going through his belongings and found the first two Captain America trading cards. She gave them to me, as a way of connecting with my father…"

* * *

"…so I braved the lines at San Diego Comic-con and slapped my thousand dollars down on the table and –" Coulson looked up and saw that Barton's breathing had modulated to a shallow, even rhythm.

"Well, I guess I'll tell you the end of that story next time you need to sleep."

Coulson turned back to his paperwork and started to fill in the minutia from the operation earlier in the day. He failed to mention the "malfunctioning com gear" or the fact that he'd found Barton asleep at the post.

He'd moved on to his daily briefing reports before he heard Barton shift in his sleep. Instantly alert, Coulson watched as the man curled into the back of the couch and continued to sleep.

The sound of a whimpering was so incongruous, that Coulson shrugged it away as a trick of his imagination. He sharpened his pencil, using his Hulk pencil sharpener, and kept on working. It wasn't until he saw Barton's feet kicking that he put the sound and motion together and realized that his charge was in distress.

Coulson liked his bones to remain unbroken, so he had to come up with something other than touching the frightened bird. He opened his desk drawer and took out a handful of rubber bands.

* * *

Barton woke almost six hours later, feeling refreshed for the first time in months. There was no lingering fogginess that he'd expected; he just felt good. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the couch and stepped down onto a sea of paper clips.

"Ah, you're awake," Coulson said, coming from the bathroom door.

"Yeah, that was… refreshing," he admitted.

"Good, I'll requisition more of those pills."

Barton stood and three paper clips fell out of his hair. "But what's with the paperclips?"

"Do you remember any nightmares?"

"No, I don't."

"Then they did their job," Coulson shrugged.

Barton bent over and picked up the dozen loose paper clips and again as many rubber bands, returning them to Coulson's desk.

"That's clever," he admitted. "Disrupting my sleep just enough to knock me out of the nightmare, but ensuring that I wouldn't lash out and hurt you."

"When you work with people who have deadly reflexes, it is wise to develop coping strategies."

* * *

A/N: If you like this story, please take a moment to review!


	5. Chapter 5

Barton was asleep – thanks to Coulson's magic pill – when the pounding on his door woke him from dreamless rest. He was up on his feet in an instant, assessing the threat.

"Barton!" Skye's voice came through the closed door. "It's Coulson, please come help. We don't know what to do!"

He grabbed his Defender fourteen-inch survival knife in its nylon sheath as he opened the door to the hacker's flush face, her eyes bouncing in their sockets in shock. He didn't bother with pants or a shirt, if it was a real emergency he could face it just as quickly in his boxer briefs than in clothing.

"Where?"

"The briefing room," she said. Barton left his door open and sprinted down the hallway. After a second, Skye followed.

"Coulson was debriefing Trip and me when suddenly he…"

"Trip's with him?"

"Yes."

Coulson was exactly where Skye had left him; Trip was by his side, attempting to get the director's attention.

"Please, let me die!"

"Director Coulson, sir," Trip said, shaking the other man by the shoulders. Even though the taller, stronger man rocked Coulson's entire body, there was no play in the muscles, he moved as if he was lashed to a backboard, completely immobilized.

"Status, Trip?"

Trip looked back over his shoulder, his eyes wide and as unfocused as Coulson's, which now Barton saw appeared to be hyper focused on something none of them could see.

"Just... just, I just want to die." Gooseflesh sprung up along Barton's arms.

"Trip, sitrep?"

"He's unresponsive to outside stimuli."

Barton searched Coulson's face, purposefully ignoring the keening cries coming from his friend's contorted mouth, and saw the red mark across his face where Trip had applied "outside stimuli."

Anger roiled in his belly at the agent, but he'd have done the same thing. Trip, feeling the heat radiate off the angry assassin, backed away from Coulson, and joined Skye hovering in the doorway. Barton tied the knife's sheath to his thigh, clearing his hands for anything that might come.

"Coulson?" he barked the name as if the man was a hundred feet away instead of five.

Coulson continued to shriek the same two or three phrases over and over again. Barton exhaled hard through his nose and stepped around Coulson, bringing his mouth right next to his ear.

"Coulson?"

Still there was no response. Barton put a hand on Coulson's shoulder and squeezed. Skye dashed away, but he didn't have enough focus to split between the two.

"Phil?" he whispered. It was an unwritten rule that in the field and in front of others, they were always Barton (or Hawkeye) and Coulson, but when they were alone, it was always Clint or Phil.

"Coulson, I need immediate evac."

"Sitrep?" Coulson slurred. Barton was so relieved he almost vomited.

"I was sleepwalking, sir. I'm fuzzy and I don't know where I am. That pill you gave me has fucked up my vision and everything's blurry," he spun a believable story. "I need your help with an exit strategy."

"…just let me die," Coulson whined, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"If you die, Phil, who's going to look after me?" Barton cringed, hating the needy truth the words conveyed.

"Just…"

Barton reached his hand straight into Phil's line of sight. In his periphery, he saw Skye return with a syringe.

_I can slip the needle into his neck before he can fight me off, of that I'm sure, but it will have to be a last resort._

"Phil, I can hear you. I know you're close, man; can you see me? I'm holding out my hand. I need your help Phil; I'm freakin' out and you're the only one I trust to get me through this. Get me an exit, Phil."

Thanks to years of training, Barton was capable of holding his arm straight and still for much longer than a normal human. The loud clunk of the clock's minute hand was the only sound in the kitchen as Barton waited. He was about to try again, when Coulson spoke.

"Tasha...?"

"She's not here Phil, and 'sides I'm wandering around in my underwear in the middle of the night. You think she'd ever let me live that down? No, Phil, it's you I trust. It's always been you."

For the first time in close to nine minutes, Coulson moved. At first, it was barely a finger twitch, then his arm rose a few inches until his fingers made contact with Barton's. Coulson traveled up the archer's familiar hand, up over his thick wrist, tracing the ropey veins and firm muscles, until his fingers clenched over the hard bulge of bicep.

"Thank you, Phil," he said, clutching at Coulson's elbows, in case the man fell over.

Coulson slowly tilted his head toward one shoulder and then the other.

"Clint? What's going on? Your eyes," he snapped. Coulson pushed Barton's arms away, and grabbed him by the ears, dragging him closer. He pulled down the bottom lid of one of Barton's eyes and then the other.

"I lied, Phil, my eyes are fine, but I knew that even stuck in a flashback there wasn't anything that could keep you from caring about your team."

"You're a dick…" Phil sighed, pushing Barton away, and sagging back against the edge of the table.

"Yeah, but you love me anyway. 'Sides, I used that grounding technique you taught me that first time Tasha got caught in her head."

"Why do I feel like every muscle of my body has been tensed to its fullest?"

"Flashbacks are a bitch. You didn't move for almost ten minutes. It was like you were paralyzed."

"What did I say?" he asked, finally noticing that they weren't alone. Trip nodded to Coulson, acknowledging his silent witness.

"Hi, AC?" Skye waved awkwardly, wearing a smile so fake it hurt him to see it.

"What did I say?" he repeated, some of the Coulson authority seeping back into his raw throat.

Skye and Trip looked toward Barton, who looked at his feet.

"Skye, Trip, you're dismissed," Barton finally said.

"Yes, sir," the twin voices responded and they left the room.

"Clint, what did I say?"

"'Just let me die,'" Barton quoted.

"Oh, well, yeah I'm still working through that."

"When you died?"

"What they did to me to bring me back, actually. Fury had me… rebuilt. It makes me so angry that he brought me back to life – against my will – but every time I see him, I can only get so far before the conditioning kicks in and I smile and nod and kowtow to whatever he wants."

"They told us they sent you to Tahiti."

"Tahiti, it's a magical place," Phil grinned and then shook his head to clear the thought. "You see what I mean? Anytime someone mentions that damn place, I respond like Pavlov's dogs."

Coulson stood, and looked around. He inclined his head toward the couch; Barton followed him over, settling so that they sat shoulder to shoulder.

"Why are you in your underwear again?"

"I was asleep when Skye woke me," Clint said dismissively. "You want me to put an arrow through his eye? Would it make you feel better if he was dead?"

"You're not seriously offering to kill Nick Fury for me, are you?"

"Phil, I'm sitting in the briefing room in my underwear with a knife strapped to my thigh; when I got here I was ready to kill anyone who was hurting you. You think I wouldn't do it? For you, Phil, I'd put an arrow through anyone."

"Not Tasha, I hope," Coulson chuckled.

* * *

A/N: Feedback is appreciated, so review if you like this story. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

Barton moved into position the night before the op. The highest point in the town was the old water tower – painted black and gold in the colors of the town's high school team – and it was the first chance he had to be up in the sky for a mission since the milk run turned into a sleep intervention.

He'd climbed straight up the 300 rungs just after 3am, approximately four hours before the op was scheduled to begin. From his perch, he had an unobstructed view of the entire area. The main drag bisected the town; on one side were quaint stores and charming local dining establishments and on the other, a few residential homes, a single apartment complex, and the school (K-12, _Go Broncos!_) were the only things separating the dusty roads from the winter-fallowed fields.

At 4 am, a man and woman opened the coffee shop on the corner and soon the smells of dark roast and flaky pastries wafted up to him. He took a protein bar from his tac vest and ignored the temptation to sneak down for something warm and fresh.

At 5 am, a man on a mower began cutting the grass on the soccer pitch with a tractor and the low rumble of the machine reminded him of his early childhood – before the circus, before his parent's death, back to a time when the only thing pressing for his attention had been the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on the grainy television while his mother vacuumed around him and his brother, Barney.

"Status?" Coulson's sleepy voice came over the coms.

"According to the sign they just put out in front of the coffee shop," Barton began, then stopped to clear his voice of the cobwebs caused by being speechless in the cold dark night for so many hours in a row, "they're running a special on blueberry pancakes and grits."

"Sounds good. I could use some coffee, too. You good on supplies? We can send you a drone."

"I'm good. I had a protein bar after I got settled."

"Alright, keep me informed."

"Once an hour, starting at 7am. I know, Coulson, this isn't my first rodeo."

"I know, I know. I just want this to be..."

"Don't jinx it, Coulson."

"Right, the clock's running."

"I'll have eyes on you the moment you clear Route 66."

"Excellent."

* * *

At 6:58 am, the non-descript SUV turned from Route 66 onto the main road. It followed the speed limit sign exactly and parallel parked in the only open space left across the street from the coffee shop. May got out of the driver's side, Coulson from the passenger. Trip and Skye climbed out of the back.

May hung back while Coulson fed coins into the meter. Skye and Trip crossed the road and entered the shop.

"All clear," Barton spoke into the coms at exactly 7am.

"Roger, thank you, Hawkeye."

* * *

After breakfast, the four team members split. May returned to the SUV, and collected a yoga mat and gym bag and turned down the street to the YMCA at the far end.

Skye bumped her shoulder into Trip and then waved lazily as she ducked into the Internet Cafe. Trip glared at her, but continued down the road to the movie theatre. He purchased a ticket to the first show and disappeared inside.

Coulson was the last one out of the coffee shop and Barton knew immediately where his friend was headed – the comic book shop just next door to the high school.

Barton opened the package of freeze-dried teriyaki jerky and settled in to watch.

* * *

For lunch, Barton split open the MRE whose label insisted it was lentil stew with potatoes and ham. It was warm and that was good enough. After he'd run his tongue along the inside of the package, he did fifty sit ups to chase away the blunt post-meal blahs.

"Noon: all clear," Barton reported on the dot.

"Need anything?" Coulson asked. "You're keeping warm, right?"

"It's 65 degrees, Coulson. I'm fine."

"It's 65 down here; what's it up there?"

"The wind's brisk, but I keep moving with the sun." _That and the black leathers keep away the teeth wind usually has at this altitude._

"Food, drink?"

"I'm not sure who labeled this MRE, but they have quite a sense of humor." He balled up the empty ration container and put it with the other trash he'd collected since this morning.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I bet you licked it clean, and I know it was more nutritious than the biscuits and gravy I had with my pancake breakfast. I saved you the grits by the way; I know how much you love them," Coulson taunted.

"Rub it in, Coulson," Barton snarked. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingertips.

"I'll make it up to you; I always do."

"I haven't spent this much time up high in too long, that's enough for me... well, that and a nice long piss, and a good meal when this is over."

"The team really needed this."

_You need it too, Phil._

"It's healing, or so my shrink would say, to get away and do something you love. Speaking of which, did you find anything good in the comic shop?"

"I found a nice Jack Monroe 1972 Captain America for $10," Coulson's voice went up in pitch just a little. "Not a bad price, but it was a hole in my collection and I could afford to fill it. I'll let you read it, if you'd like."

"Do I have to wear white gloves?" Barton asked, only half-joking. He'd found a pair the last time he'd ransacked Coulson's desk to steal the correction fluid for his last field report.

"Only if the comic in question is mint, costs me more than $100, or is older than me."

"Good to know the rules, Coulson. You're hilarious."

"I found 1/16 scale model of Hawkeye," Coulson said, changing the subject. "Your collectables are insanely expensive. You should be flattered."

"Oh yeah? How much does the plastic version of me go for? Maybe I should start collecting." A black sedan pulled off Route 66 and slowly rolled through town. Barton grabbed his field glasses and studied the three people in the car. Two of them were children; he dismissed them as a major threat.

"For the 12 inch action figure -"

"Doll," Barton razzed. "Please tell me you didn't buy a Hawkeye doll."

"The action figure," Coulson stressed, "was $550."

"Jesus, Coulson, what a waste of money."

"After the 'Fall of S.H.I.E.L.D' all the merchandise prices went up. I bet I can resell it for a grand in six months."

"You'd sell me?" Barton asked, tinting his voice with hurt just to rile up his friend.

"Of course not," Coulson defended. "It's poseable, so I have plans for it and the matching Black Widow figure I already own."

"If I ever find out you write Clintasha fanfic, I will murder you in your sleep; our friendship will not save you."

"You never have to worry about that. Incest isn't one of my kinks," Coulson laughed.

"On that disgusting note, it's 12:15; you're supposed to meet the team at the diner. You'd better start walking."

"Right, thanks."

Coulson came out of the comic shop with one large shopping bag. He stopped at the SUV and loaded it in the back before shading his eyes with a hand and looking toward the water tower.

"I can't see you. What's your position?"

"Exactly where I'm supposed to be. If you could see me, I wouldn't be doing my job correctly."

"Roger that."

* * *

The team had dinner in the third and last of the town's restaurants, a steak house that had red and white plastic table cloths and paper napkins. It smelled good.

Barton snacked on a bag of peanuts, not willing to break the seal on the spaghetti and meatball MRE while the other four dined on steak.

_You volunteered for this birdbrain... it was your stupid idea. Eat your fucking peanuts and pay attention._

When the team came out an hour later, May looked up into the fading light and winked in Barton's general direction. She held a plastic bag with leftovers. The four of them got back in the car and drove away.

* * *

"The Broncos are down by one goal," Barton announced at his 7 pm check.

"How many minutes left in the game?" Coulson asked, and Barton heard the swish of paperwork being shuffled.

"Eight more minutes. The goalie for the away team is impressive; he's built like the Hulk and is just as full of rage."

"Do I need to send a containment team?"

The Broncos midfielders failed to get the ball once again and there was no stopping the charge down field. Barton groaned.

"Let me guess; they're down two points now."

"Yeah, this is painful."

"We could push up the evac, the temp's dropping..."

"No," Barton insisted. "If we handle this right, we can come back here again."

Barton broke two heat packs and shoved them and his hands deep into his pocket until he could feel his fingertips again. In between responses he dipped his mouth and nose into the collar of his tac vest.

_Thank god I wore long sleeves._

"What's your timeline?"

"The sun's already down and the game should end soon. By the time the stragglers leave, I'd say in an hour, maybe a little longer, it will be quiet enough to climb down. If no one's stolen Lola's wheels –"

"I'd like to see them try, my baby bites," Coulson said darkly.

"I should be back around midnight."

"Excellent, report to me when you get back."

"Will do, sir. Going silent for the rest of the op."

"Roger that."

* * *

Lola was exactly where he'd left it and there was a wide ring of disturbed dust that showed she had fought back against something. A discarded crowbar, bent out of shape, was left on the curb. Even the drizzle that had begun moments before didn't dare to alight on the rich leather seats. The door sprang open to his touch and he sunk down into the seat. He put his head back, only for a moment, and contemplated going to sleep. But his far too full bladder and the gnawing hunger in his gut forced his eyes open.

"Alright, Lola, take me home," he said as he turned the key.

* * *

"...Skye, that's really nice, but Barton doesn't drink caffeine. He says jitters and archery don't mix, so how about a beer instead?" Coulson's voice drifted out of the briefing room.

"We didn't buy beer," she groaned. "Come on AC, you're usually more prepared than this; he is your bestie after all."

"Water," Barton croaked, as he turned the corner and his eyes fell upon the sight of the team, _his team_, spreading out a four course meal at the head of the briefing table. A salad, plate of mozzarella sticks, a steak with fully dressed baked potato, even a piece of cheese cake, all served on paper plates, beckoned to him.

He stumbled into the room, pulling off his vest and dropping it on the floor. He watched as Coulson picked it up, surprised by the heft of the thing, and placed it carefully on the couch.

He slouched into the chair, and even though the steak was lukewarm, it was the best damn dinner he'd had in years.

* * *

A/N: I'm on vacation this coming week, so chapter 7 will be late.


	7. Chapter 7

Skye sat bolt upright, sloshing water over the side of the tub and onto the threadbare mat.

_A tub? Where?_ _Not the Hub. No… the mission, yes, the mission, a motel on the outskirts of town, May outside the bathroom door, AC, Trip, and Barton across the hall…_ Relief, flooded Skye's brain as her heart stopped hammering quite so hard in her chest.

"What?" she responded to the noise that had woken her up.

"I said, 'are you asleep or did you drown?' But I guess I know the answer to that now."

"Oh, sorry, yeah, I was dozing. The warm water did the trick." She'd protested when Coulson had ordered her to rest, but he was right as usual. When he'd found out she'd been working for 36 hours straight, he'd been angry. He was a hypocrite, of course. He'd worked straight through his own death, so the joke went (behind his back, of course), but he made sure his agents didn't.

"Good, the guys want to order pizza. What do you want?"

"I don't care, I'll eat anything," she said. "What time is it?" Skye inspected the tips of her fingers and seeing much less wrinkled flesh then she expected, reclined back in the tub.

"Just after thirteen hundred hours. Coulson wants us to pick something. I tried that 'we'll eat anything answer,' but Coulson poo-pooed it."

"Just like AC, isn't it? I don't know, should we split a pie? What do you feel like?"

"I like Hawaiian, but no one else ever does."

"Oh yum, pineapple sounds perfect right now. Make that our order and if they don't like it, so much the better – more for us!"

* * *

Skye and May walked across the hall, May still dressed in her leathers, Skye in her flannel pajamas. Trip opened the door.

"They put me in the middle," Trip immediately complained as soon as May slid the deadbolt closed.

As Skye came past the bathroom and the room opened up, she saw what he meant. Coulson's gear was neatly arranged near the bed that had been pushed against the inner bathroom wall. On the floor, below the window, a sleeping bag was unrolled and the pair of tall boots next to it, indicated that Barton was sleeping there. The middle bed had an unpacked duffle resting in one corner. It was to that bed that Skye was drawn. She sat cross-legged on the side opposite the duffle and took the slice of pizza that Coulson offered her.

"Where's Barton?" Skye asked and all three responded with "bathroom" at the same moment. She laughed.

"Yeah, the shower running should have been a huge clue, sorry everyone, I'm not really awake yet."

"That's alright, after dinner I want you to sleep. Barton and Trip are going back out to give us eyes in the sky and establish the perimeter. If luck holds, we'll be back at the Hub by week's end," Coulson told her.

"What's so bad about sleeping in the middle?" she asked Trip, still catching up to the previous conversation.

"It's an operational thing. You come through the door, put two in the bed you can see from the door, then sweep to the one next to the wall. In the dark, you wouldn't see the guy on the floor until it's too late."

"Oh, but May took that bed in our room. She put me against the wall," Skye explained.

"That's because she's taking her responsibility as your handler seriously," Barton said as he appeared from the bathroom. He ran a towel over his still wet hair, bringing it up into impossibly wild spikes. The likewise wet t-shirt, one stolen from Coulson's Avenger collection with the matching pants, clung in odd ways making him look like a young boy wearing his father's clothing.

"May's not my handler, she's… May."

"And Coulson's grooming me to become a handler," May told her. "I hate fieldwork, even though I'm good at it. In this new S.H.I.E.L.D., I don't want to be the 'Calvary,' I want to be what Coulson is so damn good at."

"Oh! You'd be good at it; you've got a lot of patience," Skye chimed in.

"That's because you've given me a lot of practice," May intoned, her voice giving away no emotion. After a beat, she smiled and Coulson nodded his approval.

"I still don't want to be the first one shot," Trip grumbled around a mouthful of pizza.

* * *

In the morning, Skye and May returned to the other room to go over the daily briefing. Already tailing the suspect, Trip joined them by coms.

"We're heading South on Granada. Subject is completely oblivious to security concerns. I've been following her for hours and all she's doing is browsing from store to store. Did you know they made evening wear for dogs? Who pays three grand to put Fluffy in a tux?" Trip asked.

"When she meets up with her lunch appointment, we'll send Skye into her room to infiltrate her computer," Coulson decided. "Get a table, order a nice big lunch, Trip, you deserve it."

"Damn right I deserve it. After spending the night stuck in a kill box with two of the Seven Dwarves, I deserve a frickin' medal."

"Which two?" Skye chirped, the excitement of being on the op solo burning in her veins like a drug, momentarily making her forget the seriousness of the situation.

"Snory and Grumpy," Trip complained. "I don't know how Barton slept through the racket Coulson was making –"

"I don't sleep on ops," Barton cut him off. "That's why I'm Grumpy."

"Alright, cut the chatter," Coulson reprimanded. "May, you'll be backup for Skye. Trip, you're on the suspect. Barton, I'll leave your position to you, you're the best judge of it ,and we'll commence the operation in three hours, or as soon as Trip gives confirmation that the suspect has been seated."

* * *

Skye had all the pieces of the gun arranged carefully on the table in the corner of the room shared by the men of her team. She pushed a button on her phone and the stopwatch began counting the time as she reassembled each piece. Once it was complete, she slapped the timer and beamed at the good news.

"AC! That was my best time ever!"

"Good for you, Skye, now get your gear ready; I want you in position in thirty minutes," he answered, never taking his eyes off the satellite feed.

"How fast can you assemble a gun?" she turned to Barton in her disappointment at Coulson's response. Her bag was packed and she was ready to go, working on the exercise served as a way of distracting herself from the tricky emotions that settled in her chest during every mission since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"I don't know, I've never felt the need to time myself." He shrugged, but was silently impressed by her dedication to a skill so useless in the field.

"Are you sure? Ward said it was on the Agent in Training Exam. He said I shouldn't even bother trying until I could get my time under 45 seconds."

"I've been an examiner for years, I could probably still certify you as a in about an hour, and never once have I asked an applicant to assemble a gun."

"Really?" she asked. "Then what would you do if you found a disassembled gun on a mission?"

Barton picked up a spare clip from the weapon's case and confirmed that it was empty. He then looked at Skye and then indicated the print on the wall – one of Van Gogh's sunflower works.

"Right between the eyes," he said, no boasting implied and flung the clip at the center of the flower. The plastic film covering the print shattered, and then the frame fell to the floor. Skye picked it up, a dent marked the picture exactly where he'd aimed.

Coulson sighed, but ignored the commotion. Barton took the picture from her and rehung it on the wall; it was a little crooked.

"So what do _you_ test on?" she asked, laughing.

"Proper gun safety and handling," he shrugged. "Hand-to-hand, operational protocol, I'm sure there's a study guide still in the servers somewhere. After we're finished here, we'll get you proper training."

"I already know hand to hand and gun safety," she said and pointed the gun straight at Barton's chest.

He knew it was empty; he'd watched her assemble it, but it wasn't a conscious thought, only natural instinct. He snapped his left hand down on the barrel and his heel of his right hand connected with Skye's wrist.

She squeaked as the Glock fell out of her grip and clattered at their feet. She rubbed at her wrist, her mouth open in limp shock.

"What just happened?" Coulson snapped, standing so fast he scattered his paperwork onto the floor.

"Are you hurt?" Barton asked. Immediately taking her arm and palpating for broken bones. Finding none, he began to breathe again.

"Just startled, I think," she said slowly, "But seriously, what just happened?"

"Did Ward teach you that, Skye? You never aim at a person unless you intend to kill them," Coulson answer, the first of the three of them able to put into words to the last few seconds.

"I reacted to the threat," Barton said in a monotone.

"Ward, he..."

"He allowed you to point a gun at him?" Coulson rubbed at his forehead with his thumb and index finger.

"All the time. He said I needed to get used to it."

"And what was his justification for holding one on you?" Coulson scratched his scalp, trying so hard to keep his hands from reaching out and shaking Skye.

Barton felt those vibes rising off his handler. To assuage their pain, Barton would put Ward, that dog, down the moment he had a chance.

"So I wouldn't panic if a bad guy–"

"That's called desensitization. He was preparing you for the moment he'd kill you. It's always easier when the target doesn't see it coming," Barton interrupted. Long ago he'd lost the ability to sugar-coat the truth. It was a lesson he and his brother first learned in the group home when day after day no one wanted to take them home. The counselors had to tell them the truth – two kids of their age were impossible to place. And it had traveled with him to the Circus, where it was driven home again when his brother abandoned him at the hospital, his arm shattered, and the nurse telling him that no one was going to come for him.

"No, he..." she stopped, unwilling to contradict them.

"I'm sorry, Skye, I really am. I trusted him,too," Coulson said. The guilt twisted in Barton's gut: others, co-workers, people he thought of as friends, had said the same things about him, once.

"As someone who has been compromised," Barton spoke words he didn't know he was capable of, "I always want to give the benefit of the doubt. However, Ward was trying to make the moment he pulled the trigger on you easier for himself."

Skye backed up into the table, and suddenly sagged into the half pulled out chair.

"I... guess I knew that, at least since he... but I've been telling myself that he wouldn't have killed any of us, that in the end he would pick us over Garrett. He could have killed Fitzsimmons, but he didn't..."

"It's insidious," Barton hissed, then took a long moment to collect his thoughts. "That kind of programming; he was a victim, too. I've seen it before, with someone who is closer to me than a sister. But she was lucky; her handlers weren't worth her devotion. Her deprogramming was dangerous, almost deadly. But Garrett? Garrett was an expert at what he did. His cause seemed noble. He was charming and it was easy to be devoted. That doesn't mean Ward is a lost cause – God knows I'm glad my friends didn't give up on me – and it's ok to lie to yourself, if you must. He might not have fired at that last moment, but Fitz will never be the same; Simmons either, for that matter. Betrayal doesn't heal like other wounds."

"Barton, once we return to the Hub, I want you to retrain Skye on proper weapons handling," Coulson said, trying to reestablish his operational authority, find a sense of normalcy, and get his team back on track.

"Yes, sir. I'm heading out," he said, grabbing up his bow and settling his quiver over his shoulder. He opened the door.

"Tell me it gets easier, CB," she whined as he stepped out.

_CB? That's cute, kiddo._

He looked back at her, avoiding Coulson's gaze; that man could see right through the paper-thin façade that masked his features. Superimposed on her features he saw Tasha as she had been, when he'd brought her in, on that day she'd broken free of the Red Room– and decided that he would have to do the same thing with Skye that he done with her. On that day, he'd lied.

_It worked with Tasha, didn't it? She's alive and whole, moving forward… it was so much easier when the only person I had to worry about screwing up was myself… and look at the marvelous job you've done with that, you fuck-up. _He looked at Coulson, saw the understanding in those bright, intelligent eyes, and knew that he had his back, no matter which answer he choose to give her. _Man _the fuck _up, Barton, you've got to be the adult this time_

"Of course it does, Skye, just give yourself time," he said, amazed at his own ability to make that bullshit sound like silk. He winked at her and left for the roof.

_Up high, things are always clearer. Up high, things make sense. Another little sister,_ he lamented. _I'll teach her the true wonder of her name before I teach her how to properly end a life._


End file.
